


shelter also gave their shade

by Mellaithwen



Series: there's a rhythm and rush these days [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-30 00:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11452629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellaithwen/pseuds/Mellaithwen
Summary: Injured after his final battle with the Vulture, Peter Parker gets some unexpected help.“As if anything would’a kept you away from that beach.” Captain America scoffs. “Brooklyn’s ours, Buck. Besides, we look after our own.”Spoilers for Spider-Man: Homecoming





	shelter also gave their shade

**Author's Note:**

> the title's from Mumford and Sons - Hopeless Wanderer.

The beach is on fire. 

 

The debris from the plane crash is still burning on the sand and the top section of the now decapitated Coney Island parachute-jump is in pieces on the pier. Its bent and crooked steel frame stands illuminated only by the eerie lights of Luna Park’s rides, and the orange glow cast by the nearby flames at the water’s edge. The smouldering rubble is scattered all along Coney’s shore, left behind in the aftermath of Spider-Man’s fight with the Vulture, and Peter Parker watches numbly from his perch on top of the Cyclone rollercoaster as thick black smoke billows upwards into the night sky.

 

The Department of Damage Control had arrived so quickly that Peter had barely had a chance to scramble up the side of the boardwalk and out of sight before they had taken control of their employer’s downed cargo. The ‘coaster gave him the perfect vantage point, and from a distance, his silhouette could easily be mistaken as the shadow cast by the flagpole he’s leaning up against. 

 

He’d been waiting on Happy Hogan to arrive to find Peter’s neatly wrapped—or rather, _webbed_ —criminal sat amongst the carefully piled crates. From up here, with his enhanced senses, he can see clear as day as Stark’s right-hand man comes across Mr Toomes—Liz’s _dad_ of all people.

 

Peter looks down at his hands, trying not to think about the consequences of his actions, and what this means for Liz and her mom. His gloves are stuffed in his pockets, and his fingers are black from the soot that he’d used to write his note on the back of the flight’s manifest. When he turns his hands over, palms down, he can see that his knuckles are scraped raw and his right hand is throbbing. It’s a strange sensation that seems to spread out from his wrist—but he’s not entirely sure that he can really _feel_ it just yet. That thought should worry him, but worry would require more focus than he can manage right about now, so he wallows in his guilt instead. 

 

He did the right thing, he thinks, and who knows what horrible people now have their hands on seriously enhanced tech thanks to the Vulture and his friends. But Liz doesn’t know about any of that, and Peter’s about to be the reason that someone else loses a parent. 

 

After all, he knows exactly what that’s like, and it’s a crushing kind of awfulness that he wouldn’t ever wish on another person. 

 

He moves to run his hand through his hair—a nervous gesture that’s more habit than anything else—but he winces when he makes contact, and his fingers come away a little bloody. His vision blurs for a second, and he sways where he sits. He blinks, but it seems as though to take an age, everything seems so distant…and…cold…and even the acrid smell of smoke is fading…

 

He jerks on his perch, suddenly _very_ aware that a fall from this height would not be ideal—even without Karen’s helpful observations in his ear—and he decides it’s time to head home. His clothes are still at school—and he feels bad for having scrunched up his Uncle’s suit jacket into a ball, and cramming it under a row of lockers along with the rest of his things. His only saving grace is that May won’t be expecting him home until late while the dance is on, so as long as Peter’s quiet, he’ll have time to sneak into his own room, clean himself up, get into bed and hope for the best. 

 

It’s a tactic he’s been relying on a lot lately, and he knows that his Aunt’s patience is already wearing thin. To say that it’s a risky plan would be an understatement.  _I know you sneak out of this house every night, and that's not fine_. 

 

He reaches for his phone in his back pocket—having grabbed it back from out of Toomes’ car—and he’s surprised to see that it still works. Every inch of the screen is cracked, and the backlight is blinking intermittently but at least it’s still on, and he even has reception. He’s never been more grateful for letting Mr. Stark give him an upgrade. He doubts his old cell would have survived a single drop, let alone having a building fall on it, followed by a freakin’ plane crash.

 

_Crashing at Ned’s 2night - that okay?_

 

He types into the spider-webbed glass, in an attempt to curb any worrying his Aunt might be doing.

 

_Sure_ , his Aunt replies soon after, though Peter can barely make out the smudged words on the busted cell. He can see the ellipses flashing to show that she’s texting something else, but the light starts to dim and the phone dies completely before Peter gets a chance to read it. At least he’s bought himself some time, and if he’s lucky, he can crash in his own bed, wake up early, sneak outside, and make a show of arriving home the next day. 

 

He gets up with a groan, shrugging off the ringing in his ears as nothing more than a head rush from standing up too quickly. He slowly rotates his right arm—carefully testing out his shoulder’s mobility so that he can avoid any undue strain from the climb down. The fluid in his web shooters is running low, and he needs to save what little he has left to get on top of the Q-train uptown. From there there’s usually a truck passing on the BQE that he can hitch a ride on top of.

 

Satisfied that his arms can just about handle the burden, he walks across the rickety track, before making his descent down the wooden lattice that makes up the bulk of the ninety-year-old rollercoaster. His feet have no trouble keeping hold of the impromptu footholds, but what makes it slow going is getting his hands to move in sync with the rest of him. This should be child’s play compared to the Washington Monument, but everything seems so foggy now, and he’s pretty sure it has nothing to do with the smoke drifting over from the mess that he’s left behind on the beach.

 

He’s barely a couple of feet up from the ground, when his vision skews again, and he lets go of his hand hold too early and falls backwards.

 

He readies himself for a hard landing but two strong arms catch him instead, and bring him down to earth. The realisation that he’s not alone is enough to cut through the fog, if only for a little while, and he whirls around to see who had helped him, and frowns. 

 

“Cap?” He says with surprise that quickly turns to dread when he finally recognises that the bearded man in-front of him is in fact _Captain America_ , in jeans and a grey hoodie. He doesn't know who he was expecting to see, but it certainly wasn't him. 

 

“Uh—hey!” Peter continues, more than a little hesitant, having last seen the former superhero-turned-fugitive in an airport hanger in Germany, under less than ideal circumstances. “I—uh, did _not_ expect…you…to be here?” 

 

Peter takes a step backwards, wanting to put as much space between him and the other man as possible. _I stole his shield_ , he thinks in a mild panic, while his head continues to pound incessantly. _I stole his shield, and then I threw it at his head and then he made a jetway fall on top of me…_

 

“Spider-Man,” Cap says, smirking somewhat, alerting Peter to the fact that he’s not even wearing his mask, and that he’s just revealed his secret-identity to an enemy of the state. Not good, not good. What was it Tony had said? _If Cap wanted to lay you out he would have._ Maybe now he’d get his chance…

 

“Well it was great seeing you!” Peter says, cutting across his own morbid thoughts, “but I should really be… _leaving_ —” he babbles, still walking backwards, even though his headache is hitting a supernova-level of pain that he’s struggling to ignore. “There’s this dance…and my friends are gonna be wondering where I am…”

 

Cap takes a steps forward, and Peter stumbles in his haste to keep his distance, only to fall back against a wall of another figure that he hadn’t even realised was there. He flinches as he does so, before whipping around much faster than his probable-concussion can handle. His vision doesn’t even track the movement, it’s just a mess of squiggly lines before he realises that the other person is in fact the Winter Soldier. He’s equally as bearded as Cap, but his hair’s shorter now and he’s wearing a similar hoodie and jeans combo. He gives Peter a strange look that’s impossible to decipher, so naturally the fifteen-year-old assumes the worst.

 

The soldier’s wearing gloves on both hands in the middle of summer, and Peter thinks it’s the perfect choice for hiding a body. He jerks backwards even further, holding both hands out aloft in each of the super-soldiers directions. _Stay back,_ his body language screams, even if he isn’t currently saying the words. His mouth is too dry—he still has grains of sand stuck between his teeth from getting pummelled on the beach. He can taste copper on his tongue, and he’s getting more and more dizzy by the second.

 

“Take it easy, kid.” The soldier all but grunts, and it does nothing to dissuade Peter’s fears. 

 

“Calm down, we’re not gonna hurt you,” Cap says, and it sounds so much more sincere than those stupid school videos that seem to get traipsed out for every occasion. Even so, Peter’s not prepared to find out if Captain America is really as much of a liar as half of the internet says he is, so he keeps stepping backwards. _No sudden movements,_ he thinks as he makes his slow retreat, clearly equating two super-soldiers to everything he’s learnt from National Geographic about bears. 

 

“Calm?” Peter says, still rambling, “I’m calm, I’m good, this is…this is _fine_ ,” he laughs nervously. “I just need…to… I just need to…”

 

The steady rhythmic pounding in his skull has merged with the ringing in his ears, to create this all-encompassing white noise, and he can see Cap’s mouth moving, but he can’t make out the words. His own breathing feels laboured, and the Winter Soldier takes another step forward, causing Peter to flinch. The sudden movement strains his busted shoulder, and the white-noise becomes a white- _out_ of pain as he falters on his feet. 

 

His knees buckle, and the last thing he remembers is the sensation of strong arms halting his descent for the second time that evening, before he passes out completely. 

 

 

…

 

 

_“…shit…now what…?”_

 

_“…….gotta take…home.”_

 

_“…where..…he lives…don’t…his name….”_

 

_“…..damnit.”_

 

…

 

 

Peter blinks blearily as he wakes, and the fuzzy shadows around him slowly start to form concrete shapes. A table, a lamp, a clothes rail full of men’s shirts and t-shirts, and jeans and slacks. 

 

There’s light spilling in through the curtains, swaying in the light breeze that the open window provides. He can hear a steady stream of cars going by, but no one’s honking their horns and Peter thinks it must still be fairly early. 

 

He’s lying in a comfortable double bed, and there’s a warm blanket bunched up around his hips. There’s a tall glass of water on the bedside table, next to his gloves, and web-shooters. His mangled phone has been connected to a charger, and beside there's some kind of small sleek chrome adapter connect to the earphone socket that Peter doesn’t recognise as anything commercial. 

 

He rolls over slowly, reaching for his cell. As he does so, a gel ice pack falls away from where it had been resting on the left side of his face, and another, that had been placed on his right shoulder, gets dislodged too. He catches both of them with ease, and it’s then that he notices that his right wrist has been expertly wrapped in an ace bandage.

 

_What the—?_

 

Frowning, he can just about make out the phone’s clock as it reads 07:47am. He has a handful of texts from his Aunt checking in, and three missed calls from last night. Two are from May, but the other is from an Unknown number. The rest of his messages are from Ned. 

 

_Your Aunt wants you to answer your phone._

 

and then, _I think she thinks you’re at my house?_

 

Followed swiftly by, _What should I say?_

 

_Peter?_

 

_Are you okay?_

 

_I’ve told her you’re sleeping. Text me back._

 

_Dude, where are you?_ The most recent message from Ned reads, sent little over and hour ago.

 

Good question, Peter thinks as he nervously runs a hand through his hair. Good question. 

 

The last thing he remembers is sitting on top of the Cyclone rollercoaster after getting his ass handed to him by the Vulture, watching— _wait._

 

He remembers climbing down. He remembers falling. He remembers that he wasn’t alone. 

 

He unplugs his phone from the charger, but the small silver device remains attached regardless.He fires off a quick text apologising firstly to his Aunt, telling her that he’ll be home soon, and then another to Ned, promising to explain everything when he sees him.

 

_If you haven’t heard from me in an hour, call the police._ He types out, but then shakes his head before correcting the message.

 

_If you haven’t heard from me in an hour, call Tony Stark._

 

Pocketing his cell, he expertly gets up and out of bed without making a sound. Silently, he creeps over to the door, and with skills that have more to do with being a teenager, than being bitten by a radioactive spider, he opens the door by a sliver—just enough to peak out. From this angle he can’t see much, and he can’t see who’s talking but he can definitely hear them.  There’s two distinct voices. Both male. One of which he recognises as belonging to Captain America. After all, he’s sat through enough of his fitness tests and inspirational speeches to last a lifetime. 

 

They’re talking about keeping a low profile, and then they’re talking about last night.

 

“As if anything would’a kept you away from that beach,” Captain America scoffs. “Brooklyn’s ours, pal. Besides, we look after our own.” 

 

“I thought you said he was from Queens,” the other voice that must belong to the Winter Soldier pipes up dryly, and Peter hears the fluttering of something flying through the air, before colliding with a solid mass. A mass that makes a very indignant sound at having been hit square in the chest with the morning paper. 

 

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Cap says, clearly not intending to apologise, and Peter cranes his neck around the doorframe to get a better look. 

 

“Oh yeah, punk?” The Soldier responds. “Why don’t you come over here and show me what you mean.”

 

Peter watches as the Captain strides over to the couch where the other man is sat, and flops down next to him. 

 

“You’re a real asshole in the mornings, you know that?” Cap says, before reaching up to tug on the Soldier’s neck, and pull him in for a kiss. The Soldier doesn't hesitate to return his affections two-fold, clearly trying to gain the upper hand.

 

“Huh,” Peter says, because hearing Michelle’s thoughts on historical figures in queer theory is one thing, but having it confirmed in front of his very eyes is quite another. 

 

Every occupant in the room freezes, and Peter is suddenly very aware that he had said that _out-loud_ , and now he has two super-soldiers staring up at him from their couch. 

 

_Crap_. 

 

“Sorry!” Peter says, somehow managing to look both sheepish and alarmed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, that was really _not cool_ of me, and I’m sorry, I just—”

 

“I think we broke him.” The Winter Soldier smirks, while Steve gets up and walks over to the kitchen, beckoning for Peter to come out from behind the door.

 

“Hope you like eggs,” Cap calls over his shoulder, just as the Soldier wanders over to the breakfast table, holding a laptop under his arm. 

 

“How you feeling, kid?” He asks Peter as he walks by, looking him up and down, no doubt an attempt to assess his injuries. “By the looks of things last night, you took one hell of a beating.  Then again, so did Coney Island,” Cap’s companion continues when Peter doesn’t reply, gesturing to the empty seat beside him with his half-empty cup of coffee. 

 

“So what’s your name?” He asks, trying to appear disinterested as he taps away at his laptop. “I gotta figure you don’t like hearing me call you _kid_ every five minutes.”

 

Peter hesitates.

 

“You don’t have to—” Steve interjects, as he divvies out the fairly large portions of scrambled eggs across three plates.

 

“ _Peter_ , my name’s Peter.” He says hurriedly, sliding into the offered seat at the table before he has a chance to overthink it. So far he’s woken up from a deep sleep to find that his injuries have been tended to, and now he’s getting breakfast? If his name is an olive branch, then he’s happy to extend it. At least on a first name basis, that is. For now.

 

By the wide smile on Captain America’s face, he figures it was the right call. 

 

“Nice to meet you Peter, I’m Steve,” Cap— _Steve_ —says, as though every kid in America doesn’t know his name, “and this is Bucky.”

 

And that brings Peter back to the Winter Soldier—or rather, Bucky. _James Buchanan Barnes_. Peter had made it his mission to read up on every single shred of information in the aftermath of the Sokovia Accords. Michelle had called him a weirdo for it, but she had also been instrumental in supplying him with additional reading material that focused on the Sergeant’s record in the run up to his— _temporary_ —demise. He was a War Hero, turned Fugitive, and now here he was sat across the table from Peter, shovelling scrambled eggs into his mouth with a fork in one hand and typing away at his laptop with the other. 

 

Peter’s stomach rumbles loudly, while he’s still trying to get his head around how surreal this morning is turning out to be.

 

“Your wrist was pretty messed up,” Bucky says when Peter reaches for the fork at the side of his plate. “So I’d be careful—” 

 

Peter stretches out his fist, flexing each of his fingers as he goes. 

 

“—if I were you… Never mind,” Barnes finishes as Peter works to undo the now-unnecessary bandage. 

 

“I figured you were enhanced somehow since the black-eye’s gone, but that’s impressive.” Steve says as he covers his own eggs with sauce. 

 

“It’s a long story.” Peter tells them, and they both nod as if they expected him to say as much. They don’t pry, which he appreciates, and the eggs are so good that Peter practically inhales the whole lot in seconds. “Thank you,” he says a little awkwardly as he finishes. “For last night,” he adds. “And for this. I know it probably would’ve been easier to leave me there. This doesn’t…I mean I don’t normally—”

 

“Survive plane crashes, beat up bad guys, climb on top of rollercoasters?” Steve supplies helpfully.

 

“Yeah, that.”

 

“So, this is more your thing?” Bucky asks, and before Peter can question what he means, Bucky's turning his laptop around so that Peter can see what he’s been looking at.

 

There’s a YouTube clip open—one of the older ones Peter knows about— _Spider-Guy in Midtown! WTF?_ The title says, while below, in grainy cellphone footage, Spider-Man stops a car from colliding with the side of a bus.He’s still pretty proud of that one.There’s already a suggested video in the column on the right that shows some of the fiery wreckage from last night. Peter’s mood deflates once more.

 

“Kinda,” he shrugs in response to Bucky’s question. “It just feels like the right thing to do.”

 

“How old are you, even?”

 

“Fifteen.” Peter says, squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest as he does. There’s a scuffle under the table, followed by Bucky letting out a yelp after having clearly been kicked in the shin by his partner. Steve gives him the side-eye as he gets up to clear their plates.

 

“Where do you go to school, Peter?” Steve asks, to try and guide the conversation onto neutral ground. 

 

“Midtown Science & Technology,” he replies, clearing his throat.

 

“Principal Morita, right?” Steve says, and Peter sees Bucky’s head shoot up in his peripheral vision.

 

“Yeah, how'd you know?” 

 

“Lucky guess,” Steve says, oblivious to the very pointed look Bucky is aiming at the back of Steve’s head right about now.

 

Peter looks at the laptop as Bucky flips it back around, and he notices something sticking out of the USB port. He gets his phone from out of his pocket, and sees that it’s the same device.

 

“What’s this for?” He asks, trying again to remove the small piece of metal from out of his phone to no avail. 

 

“There’s a catch on the side, see? You press it in and it pops right out—but you gotta keep it in until you leave. It stops anyone from being able to track the device,” Bucky explains, pointing to the dongle in his laptop with his own distinct metal fingers, that appear to be made out of the same material. 

 

Peter realises then that Bucky’s forearm looks different to when he saw it last. The plates look smoother, and the metal seems sleeker. “Gifts from the King of Wakanda—” Bucky continues and Peter blinks. So it’s not some kind of chromium at all, it’s _vibranium_.

 

“Wait, Wakanda?” Peter interrupts. “Is that where we _are_?” He asks incredulously, and Bucky can’t help but bark out a laugh—one so sudden and loud that it startles the fifteen year old a little.

 

“What? No, look out the window, we’re in Brooklyn Heights,” Bucky tells him. “We haven’t kidnapped you, okay? But last night when you collapsed, you wouldn’t wake up, and Steve knew you were from Queens, but that doesn’t exactly narrow it down much, so we brought you here.”

 

“Does Mr. Stark know that you’re in Brooklyn?” Peter asks, and Steve and Bucky share a pointed look.

 

“Probably.” Steve admits. “But he hasn’t turned up with JSOC, or the full might of the United States Government just yet, so who knows?”

 

“Speak of the devil,” Bucky says as he clicks onto a news channel's live-feed, and positions the computer so they can all see it. There’s an old photograph of Tony standing with Pepper Potts at the Met Ball, next to a much more recent picture of the two sitting very close together on a beach in Malibu. The scrolling headline at the bottom of the screen reads: _Pepperoni: Stark and Potts together again?_

 

“Mazel-tov,” Bucky says, and Steve smiles to himself.

 

“… _a spokesperson for Stark Industries declined to comment on the nature of their relationship, but if photographs recently obtained by TMZ are anything to go by, then it would appear that love is once again in the air. Over to you Christine._ ”

 

“ _Thank you Will. And in other news, The Department for Damage Control continue to work on the clean-up at Coney Island this morning, following on from last night’s dramatic plane crash that took out the beloved Parachute Jump—_ ”

 

The screen cuts to an aerial shot taken above the beach. The scene doesn’t look much better in the cold light of day, but at least the fire’s are out. A mug shot of Adrian Toomes appears then while the scrolling headline reads, s _uspect in custody_.

 

Peter has to look away. 

 

He wonders if Liz is watching, or if she’s even been told yet. God this sucks.

 

“At least you didn’t hit the Wonder Wheel,” Bucky drawls with his thick Brooklyn accent, talking over the report to distract Peter. “Now _that,_ I would’a smacked you for.”

 

Steve reaches across to the table and shuts the laptop down.

 

“You stopped a lot of supercharged weapons from getting made last night, Peter.” He says, tactfully not focusing on the Vulture being put behind bars. “You saved lives, buddy, you did good.”

 

“There’s this girl at my school,” Peter explains quietly in response. “The Vulture’s her dad, and now he’s going to prison because of me.”

 

“No, that’s not on you.” Bucky interrupts firmly. “He had a choice, no one forced him to…” His voice trails off, and Steve interjects.

 

“Sometimes doing the right thing means making hard choices, but you did do the right thing, Peter. And I bet Tony’ll say the same.”

 

Peter nods, a little numbly, at a complete loss of how to respond.

 

“Look, why don’t I give you a ride home?” Steve offers. “If you’re feeling up to it?”

 

He checks his phone for the time, and he can see a message from Ned that reads, _It’s been forty-seven minutes, should I call him?_

 

_Stand down_ , Peter replies quickly. 

 

He can see from his other messages that his Aunt is definitely awake, and waiting for him, so sneaking in is gonna be a hellova lot harder now. He’ll have to go in through the front door, which…well. He looks down at his clothes, singed and scorched and quite visibly belonging to Spider-Man—albeit the low-grade version.

 

“I can’t let my Aunt see me like this,” he says with a groan, and Bucky’s eyes soften at that, before he takes a sip of his coffee and looks away. It happens so quickly that Peter doubts if it even happened at all, but then Barnes says, “you can borrow something of Steve’s, he likes to wear _smediums_ ,” and he’s smirking like there’s an inside joke there that Peter doesn’t get.

 

“I’m gonna kill Sam for teaching you that,” Steve says in response, but ducks back into their bedroom regardless. He comes back a moment later and tosses a red t-shirt at Peter’s head.

 

The lettering on the front is mustard yellow, and in faded type it reads _Brooklyn Cyclones_. When Peter puts it on over his blue sweatshirt, it’s clearly too big on him, but he doesn’t look like he’s been fighting crime and putting out fires in the middle of the night so it’s already a step up. He pockets his gloves, and his almost empty web-shooters, and rolls up his still-dirty blue sleeves. 

 

Bucky grabs a pair of joggers from a drawer, and frowns when Peter has to pull the drawstring as far as it’ll go to stop them from falling down. 

 

“Well at least you won’t get mistaken for Spider-Man,” he says, tossing a pair of keys in Steve’s direction. Peter reaches behind him without thinking about it, plucking them out of the air with ease. 

 

“Show off,” Bucky mutters, but it’s completely devoid of malice.  “It was nice meeting you Spidey," he says, as he ruffles the kid's hair. "Now scram, grandpa Steve’ll give you a ride back to good ol’ Queens.”

 

Peter grins, and follows Steve out of the apartment, and a little down the street to where a non-descript navy pick-up truck is parked near a paid meter. The only inkling Peter gets that Steve is in fact on-the-run is the subtle way he turns his head away from a police officer as he crosses the street. Peter knows what it’s like to have secrets, but he can’t imagine what it must be like to be looking over your shoulder day in, day out. The fact that Steve and Bucky helped Peter out last night, despite the risks, seems all the more profound, and he appreciates the level of trust Steve seems to give out so freely. 

 

They ride in a comfortable silence, with Steve occasionally tapping away at the steering wheel, and taking Peter’s directions in his stride as he takes the exitoff the expressway. 

 

Steve pulls up a block away from Peter's building as requested, but as he puts the car into park, he turns to face the teenager, and he gives him a serious look.

 

“You know, Tony’ll come around.”

 

“What?" Peter exclaims. "How did you know?”

 

Steve raises his eyebrow, “I have my ways.”

 

“It was the suit wasn’t it?”

 

“Yup.” Steve smiles. “Look Peter, you’re carrying a lot on your shoulders, and no matter what’s happened, Tony’ll have your back—”

 

“Mr. Rogers—”

 

“—and what I’m trying to say is that, I know you’ve got Queens covered, but if you ever need help, or back-up, well, you know where to find us, okay?”

 

There’s that trust again, and Peter can’t deny that it feels good to know that despite everything, Captain America is still willing to fight in his corner. He wonders if this is what being an Avenger feels like. 

 

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, and Steve nods.

 

“You’re not alone, Peter,” he says, as he starts to pull away from the sidewalk, heading back in the direction of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, “don’t forget that!”

 

“Not a chance,” Peter says, with a private smile as he makes his way home. He doubts he’ll be forgetting any of the last few days any time soon, but he thinks—no, he _knows_ —that he’ll be all the better for it. 

 

 

 

— Fin.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> shameless, I know, but I loved Homecoming so so much and then I saw Coney Island and got excited at the possibilities...
> 
> and fun fact: I own that Brooklyn Cyclones t-shirt ;) it is very comfortable
> 
> Feel free to say hello on [tumblr](http://mellaithwen.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
